


The Dictionary Begins and Ends With You

by misbegotten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Hand jobs, Mutual Masturbation, PWP, the opposite of meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 00:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20162482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: First impressions and all that.





	The Dictionary Begins and Ends With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [out_there](https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/gifts).

> For [out_there](http://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there) on the occasion of her birthday. Many happy returns, doll.
> 
> [marginaliana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana) made this immeasurably better. Thank you. ♥

** _Then_ **

Mycroft Holmes was one of those toffee-nosed stuck-ups that Greg couldn't tolerate. The word supercilious didn't do him justice. What word could be more supercilious than supercilious? Greg wasn't entirely sure, but there was a picture of Mycroft Holmes next to it in the OED. Except that Mycroft Holmes would probably point out that the OED didn't have pictures in it.

That was Greg's first impression of the man, at any rate.

Admittedly, Greg wasn't at his best when he met Mycroft Holmes. Greg was in A&E, pacing and wishing fervently for a cigarette. He was cursing himself for giving a damn whether bloody pain-in-the-arse Sherlock offed himself with a drug overdose. It didn't help that the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room, when he tried them, had played hell with his back. That the fluorescent lights, to which he'd been subjected for far too long, bleached the colours of everything into a headache-inducing white glaze. That his suit still had Sherlock's sick on it.

Greg had tried flashing his identity card to the nurse on duty to speed up the process of finding out whether bloody pain-in-the-arse Sherlock was going to survive the night. The nurse was implacable. Nor did she give any indication that the flirty grin Greg tried on her was at all effective.

So, when a stranger cleared his throat behind Greg and the nurse practically snapped to attention, Greg was hacked off.

"Sherlock Holmes," the newcomer said briskly, all RP delivery. And a bespoke suit at three in the fucking morning. The nurse immediately stood to lead him beyond the impregnable double doors.

"Oi!" Greg protested.

The man turned to Greg and did not wrinkle his nose. He so obviously did not wrinkle his nose that Greg felt thoroughly embarrassed by his rumpled, vomit-stained clothing.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man said. "I am Sherlock's brother. Thank you for your assistance. Your presence is no longer required." He turned his back on Greg and walked past the admittance desk.

"Oi!" Greg called again, as the doors began to contract between them. "You got a name of your own?"

The brother did not bother to reply.

Later, Greg made a few enquiries. The answer came back that Sherlock's brother was called Mycroft. That he occupied a minor position in the government. And, most importantly, that Greg should never ask about him again.

Right then. Best forgotten.

*

** _Now_ **

"What was your first impression of me?" Greg asks. They're in bed, on their knees and facing one another. Mycroft's spine is ramrod straight, though he's pumping Greg's cock lazily. No, lazily is not the right word. Mycroft Holmes is never lazy. He's doing it slowly, though. Patiently, and with the practised knowledge of the right pressure and rhythm to keep Greg just this side of coming.

"When I read your file, or when I saw you in person?"

Greg chuckles, and feels Mycroft shiver at the warm breath of it on his neck. He leans forward to kiss Mycroft again, with the slightest hint of teeth this time. It would probably be character building to see how long he can hold out against Mycroft's persistent attention to his cock. But Greg would rather disrupt Mycroft's focus just because he can. He runs his hands across the milky pale slope of Mycroft's shoulders, around to Mycroft's back. Digs in a bit with his fingers, feeling the play of muscles there. Mycroft's breath stutters.

"Either," Greg says, and is pleased when Mycroft takes a few seconds to reply. Mycroft never, ever forgets the thread of a conversation. But he can, Greg has discovered, get lost in the moment. Albeit briefly.

"When I first saw you in person, you looked dreadful."

Greg's hands move down and his fingers press into the sharp line of Mycroft's hips, then onwards down the slope of his thighs. There's tension there. Mycroft is holding himself still, except for the steady motion of his hand on Greg. That's good. Very good. "It was a bad night," Greg reflects. And he can't help pointing out, "Mostly because of your brother."

"As you say," Mycroft allows.

Greg moves his hands back up, nails scratching lightly. His fingers flex along the dusky trail of hair from Mycroft's cock to his belly. Muscles shift, Mycroft inhales, and Greg can tell from the slight sound that Mycroft makes when he breathes out that he's disappointed. "What else?" Greg asks.

The words come more quickly now. Greg hasn't even touched Mycroft's cock yet, and Mycroft is flushed, his skin feverish to the touch. "I thought you were foolish to spend your time delivering Sherlock from his den of vice. I thought you fancied him, because I could discern no good reason for you to go to so much trouble."

"Wanker," Greg huffs.

"I thought you were foolish," Mycroft repeats. Then-- "And kind."

Greg relents and moves his hands downwards again, palms flat. Mycroft's cock is already rising and requires only the slightest caress to twitch in Greg's grasp. _Touch me_, it says in a needy, demanding way that Mycroft would never voice. But really, it isn't necessary for Greg to hear the words.

For a long while there's only the slide of skin, gasped groans, and pleased hisses. Greg drops his head onto Mycroft's shoulder and concentrates on delivering smooth friction despite his shaking arms, the unsteadiness of his hands. He strokes his thumb over the head of Mycroft's cock and is rewarded when Mycroft's hips crash forward. Mycroft thrusts into Greg's grip desperately, and his ministrations to Greg's cock turn beautifully sloppy. It's enough to set Greg's nerve endings on fire.

It's rare that they come at the same time. Rare, and blindingly perfect. 

There's a flannel on the side of the bed, but Greg is too spaghetti-limbed to reach for it. Even Mycroft seems to be having difficulty, which pleases Greg to no end. Mycroft manages to clean them up eventually, however. When he's done, Greg rolls Mycroft into his arms.

Greg is hovering on the edge of sleep when Mycroft speaks again. "Whereas you thought I was condescending. Pompous."

It takes a lot of effort to come up with the right word. "Supercilious," Greg slurs. "Thought there was a picture of you next to it in the OED."

"Gregory," Mycroft chides him gently. "The OED has no illustrations."

Greg's chest aches with fondness.


End file.
